02 MAN UNCLE: The Countdown to Annihilation Affair
by Dan Bivens
Summary: What happens when Napoleon and Illya have to take on THRUSH in Russia which holds a dark secret for Illya? Read after THE 43 YEARS AFTER AFFAIR...this is a TWEAKED version of an earlier tale
1. Chapter 1

**THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR**

Chapter 1:

"Trouble in Paradise?"

"Well, Illya, come for the coffee or the ambiance?" Napoleon Solo said with a quirk of a smile as he sat across the table from Illya Kuryakin.

Illya sipped his white chocolate mocha coffee, with added vanilla bean powder sprinkles, while eyeing his friend and fellow agent as though trying to peer deep into Napoleon's memory of nocturnal events from a week ago.

"What can I get for you today, hon?" asked an auburn-haired young woman in hip-hugger jeans, open-toed sandals and midriff cut short-sleeve T-shirt, whose silk-screened words and images were hidden by the Starbucks' green bib apron.

Napoleon wasn't sure, but he thought the young waitress might've been flirting with him.

Illya figured she probably saw a father-figure in the graying U.N.C.L.E. agent and found himself amused by Napoleon's unflagging belief in his own sensuality.

"Uh, well now, let me see," Napoleon finally puzzled, as his hazel eyes danced in a contemplative circle, then said, "I'll have a Guatemala Casi Cielo with a sprinkling of both maple and pumpkin spice and, if possible, jack up the caffeine level for me, sweetie, it may end up being a very long day."

Looking a little lost, the gum-chewing waitress, young enough to be Napoleon's granddaughter, nodded and replied, "Uh, I'll see what we can do."

As she quickly left, Illya couldn't help but be even more amused, as Napoleon casually, by way of changing the subject, said, "Well, Illya, aren't you going to ask me about the young lady at JFK when we returned from our first mission affair in…how many years?"

"No," said Illya with a shake of his blonde head, while sipping more of his rather tasty coffee concoction, "I was too busy explaining to our new 'boss' why you'd decided to forego standard debriefing procedure which, if you'll remember, is required immediately after any mission affair. Much less this one. By the way…she wasn't pleased. Perhaps you'd better have that Guatemala Casi Cielo served with a shot of vodka on the side."

"You know, Illya, jealousy is an ugly thing," Napoleon said with playful sarcasm. "It's not my fault the lady didn't have a friend interested in past-their-prime Russians with blonde hair and blue eyes. How do you keep your hair color, by the way? Doesn't look like a dye job."

Illya simply said, "It isn't," and left it at that, just as Napoleon's requested coffee concoction was brought by the auburn-haired beauty, whose swift smile was followed by an even swifter departure.

"Thank…," Napoleon had started to say, only to have his parting salutation left dangling like an unwelcome flower in the hand of the only guy at a dance with no female takers. "Well…cheers, my friend."

"Cheers."

Roughly a half-hour later, both men made their way into the supply area in back of the storefront, tugged firmly on a fake section of supply racks, which swung open with ease, in order to reveal the flush metal blast-proof top-secret U.N.C.L.E. entrance.

"You first, my American friend," Illya said to Napoleon.

Both pulled their wallets from inner coat pockets of expensively tailored suits, then used top-secret keycards to zip through the recessed card-reading slot. Immediately after, there came the audible humming sound preceding a click signifying the opening of magnetic locks.

As it opened and closed automatically, the two agents stepped through, past unseen sensors, with the false supply shelves hiding the entrance from prying eyes closing and securing itself as well.

And not a moment too soon, as the gum-chewing young waitress stepped into the area to grab some cups, lids, and various other official Starbucks' supplies, less than a second after the secret U.N.C.L.E. ingress became hidden from view once again.

"I could've sworn," she said under her breath with a puzzled scowl, then shrugged. "Huh. Guess I need a coffee break."

After a brief walk along the entrance hall, where a variety of male and female U.N.C.L.E. operatives were coming and going, crossing before and behind them, until…

"Good morning, gentlemen," the pleasant-sounding young man said with a smile even as he took two upside-down triangle badges, numbered "11" and "2" respectively, in preparation for attaching them to the suit coat pockets of two over-the-hill U.N.C.L.E. operatives.

"Uh, that's all right, I, uh, prefer to do it myself," Napoleon Solo said with a hint of homophobia, taking his badge and attaching it to his own coat pocket.

"Very well, Mr. Solo," said the strictly heterosexual male receptionist/secretary as he turned his attention to the more sexually secure Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agent. "Mr. Kuryakin?"

"Uh, certainly, uh, Number 14, thank you," Illya said politely as badge Number 2, Section 2, was clipped onto the fair-haired agent's suit coat pocket.

Number 14 nodded affably, then returned his attention to the myriad duties which included far more than simply handing out badges to incoming operatives as he pressed the necessary touch-sensitive button to open the door to the inner office.

"Good morning, agents," greeted Ms. Hall, though not at all pleasantly in connection with Napoleon Solo, while simultaneously gesturing to the same two ultra-modern chairs before her desk. "Mr. Solo, I trust you have…"

"An explanation for not reporting for debriefing when Mr. Kuryakin did?" Napoleon smilingly said. "My apologies, Ms. Hall, I was unavoidably…detained. I have, however, since met with…"

"Mr. Solo," said Ms. Hall with more than a little irritation, "perhaps the man who sat in this office a few decades back…"

"Alexander Waverly," Napoleon said with a bemused half-smile.

"Yes, Mr. Solo, I am aware of the various U.N.C.L.E. heads that have come and gone through these hallowed halls. I think you're missing the point. I insist on all my agents, not just the younger ones or the polite Russian ones, to report for debriefing within 24 hours of the successful completion of a mission affair," sternly said Ms. Hall with a barely audible sigh of rapidly growing exasperation. "Mr. Kuryakin did so. You, however, Mr. Solo…"

Before she could continue and before Napoleon, still sporting a smile bordering on a full-blown smirk, could interject, Ms. Hall pulled a computerized pad from the neat pile arranged just so on her oval desk's smooth metal surface.

"According to U.N.C.L.E. surveillance, which I just happened to have on hand at JFK upon your return, you left with a young woman…very young…whom you then took, via taxi to a passable three-star hotel called…"

Blessedly the chastising of Napoleon by Ms. Hall was interrupted by the signal-beep of whoever was currently manning the U.N.C.L.E. communications center, whereby she tapped a button with one beautifully manicured, though still quite businesslike, forefinger.

"Control, com. What is it?"

"Control, we just received an interrupted incoming text message from U.N.C.L.E. agents 48 and 57 from Kazakhstan," said the voice of an attractive woman, or so Napoleon imagined, via unseen speakers. "At last report…Aqtau."

Slightly perturbed by the interruption, and not yet concerned about what has happened to these two U.N.C.L.E. agents, Ms. Hall snappishly said, "I know, I'm the one who sent them there! What did they report before transmission was interrupted, com?"

Napoleon noticed Illya not only scowling, but scooting to the edge of his seat with concerned interest etched into his relatively line-free face. There was something regarding the Slavic country of Kazakhstan that clearly disturbed Illya. Something personal.

Napoleon now sat forward, too, his ears taking in the conversation between Ms. Hall and the unseen beauty, from her voice, in communications. His eyes, however, narrowed and fixed upon the deepening glower dominating Illya's features.

"This is the transcript of their last text messaged report," com said. "'Have located the package. Buyers in play. Preparing to crash party.' That was it until what sounded like a partial live transmission requesting immediate 'egress'…cut short by what appeared to be gunfire."

The communications operative, located far from U.N.C.L.E. control in, never bothered to finish. She didn't have to.

Attempting to alleviate the sudden heaviness settling over this understandably tense moment, Napoleon lifted both eyebrows, inclined his salt-and-pepper head and half-jokingly asked, "Trouble in paradise?"

END OF CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

**THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR**

Chapter 2

"…this looks like it'll be a lot of fun"

Napoleon Solo was losing his patience with Illya Kuryakin as the two of them, having been driven out to JFK Airport once again, had taken off in the cushy HQ-chartered/maintained Learjet currently bound for…

"Aqtau, Kazakhstan?" Napoleon Solo asked aloud. "Okay, Illya, don't you think it's about time for you to tell me about this place? I mean, I already know why the two missing…probably dead…U.N.C.L.E. agents were there…to stop THRUSH from purchasing weapons-grade plutonium from rogue Russian secret service agents. But why the hell do you look so…?"

"My father died there," Illya said suddenly, his eyes pensively staring out the oval window next to him. Then, with a heavy sigh, added, "My biological father, that is. He was assigned to work on one of the oil-drilling sites in Aqtau…which used to be called Shevchenko, after the Russian poet, around the time I first became an agent with U.N.C.L.E., but was later changed to…"

"Illya, what happened?" gently interjected Napoleon, taking care not to add to Illya's emotional pain.

Still staring intently out the oval window, Illya recapped a terribly personal tale, "Because the Soviet Union was still very much alive in those days…as was the, then, KGB… the Komitet Gosudarstvennoy Bezopasnosti…"

Nodding brusquely, Napoleon said, "'The Community for State Security'. Which sounded really harmless, when it was anything but. Go on, Illya."

"The KGB took my father, one I'd never known about until just before my U.N.C.L.E. years, along with other state-assigned oil workers, and forced them to, instead, work on moving plutonium to lead-lined storage compartments. They weren't provided with adequate personal shielding against the radioactivity. They all, not long after, died terrible deaths from the exposure," Illya said, never once turning to look at Napoleon who was filled with a combination of curiosity and caring.

At last, Illya turned in Napoleon's direction with his blue eyes filled with deep-seated sadness mixed with a burning desire for vengeance, then added, "My mother took me to see him, before he died. We watched him quickly wither away. Then she…"

Illya's final statement of personal woe trailed away, choked off by not only the incredible grief he was feeling, but a need to, somehow, exact retribution.

Napoleon noticed and said, "Illya…you can't even think about doing what you are thinking once we get to Aqtau, Kazakhstan. Hell, the KGB doesn't even exist anymore and whoever was over it back then is probably long dead, so…"

"Fifth Chief Directorate Vladmir Sorkenvek," spat Illya. "He's still alive. I checked. He lives in Aqtau. Retired, of course."

Slightly embarrassed by his ignorance of the present-day situation of former KGB persons, Napoleon, brow knitted in puzzlement, said, "Uh, Fifth Chief Directorate?"

"The Fifth Chief Directorate of the KGB was in charge of internal security as well as with dealing with 'dissension', something that, until then, had been part of the duties of the Second Chief Directorate. And the term 'dissension' was used officially when referring to my father, as well as the others chosen for an 'internal security task' that guaranteed death from radiation poisoning. That was one of the reasons I decided to join U.N.C.L.E."

"This Vladmir Sorkenvek," said Napoleon, "must have one boot in the grave, Illya. He'll die all on his own. Don't go 'rogue' on me. You know what security procedure dictates should you go 'off the grid' in the middle of a mission affair."

"I know, Napoleon," said Illya, pensively looking out the oval window again. "I know."

"Well, this looks like it'll be a lot of fun," Napoleon sardonically said beneath a very heavy sigh.

END OF CHAPTER 2


	3. Chapter 3

**THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR**

Chapter 3

"Welcome to Aqtau"

Having touched down at a private airport in the Russian Province of Mangghystau, financed by not only U.N.C.L.E. but the CIA as well, two dressed-downed agents took possession of an ex-Soviet military jeep, retrofitted, Napoleon noticed, with yet another GPS OnStar device. Naturally, this meant Illya would drive.

Just as well since, clearly, the Russian knew more about this former-Soviet Union region than Napoleon.

Too bad the two had such a long, bumpy drive ahead of them before reaching the seaport Slavic city, because Napoleon knew that Illya would be less talkative than normal.

It would be all the graying U.N.C.L.E. agent could do to maintain even the most rudimentary of conversations.

"So," Napoleon said amidst meek attempts to chat about the weather, which wasn't exactly balmy, or the scenery, which was bleak, "the KGB's been replaced by the FSB."

"Yes, the Federal Security Service of the Russian Federation…in Belarus, however, it is still known as the KGB. A garbage heap by any other name still stinketh."

Napoleon chuckled for the first time since beginning this, their second mission affair, "Well, well…the dry-humored Illya Kuryakin's still in there somewhere, isn't he?"

Also for the first time since the beginning of this mission affair, Illya allowed a half smile upon his face. "Sorry if I've been a little closed off this time around, Napoleon."

"You?" quipped Napoleon. "'Closed off'? Perish the thought!"

The half smile on Illya's face soon became a full one, until he glanced down at the GPS' moving map in relation to their position. Then, disappointingly, allowed that look of impending doom to dominate his features again. "We should reach the city's limits in about five or six minutes. Better contact U.N.C.L.E. and let them know. We're due for a mandatory check-in anyway."

Heaving a sigh of returning frustration, Napoleon reached into the pocket of the cheap jacket, worn by both agents, concealing not only their shoulder-holster carried Walther P38s, but the attached-behind-the-back accessory pack containing everything needed to turn a pistol into a carbine.

Finally Napoleon pulled out an ordinary-looking pen that, with practiced hand movements, he transformed into one of only two in-use pen communicators.

"Open Channel D," Napoleon said officially into the combination microphone-speaker of the cylindrical device held by the fingers of one hand, "open Channel D."

"Channel D open, Mr. Solo," the voice, a man's this time, answered huskily. "Report, please."

"Mr. Kuryakin and I should be entering Aqtau in five minutes or less. Will report back when the THRUSH operatives have been neutralized and the illegally obtained plutonium located. Until then, I suggest radio silence. Solo out."

As Napoleon reconverted the communications device back into an innocuous-looking ink pen, placing it back into the pocket of the casual jacket, he glanced over at the still sullen Illya and said, "Smile, my friend…we're about to stop THRUSH maniacs from holding the world hostage…again. Not bad for our first couple of weeks out of retirement."

"That's all very well and good, Napoleon, but once that has been done…with or without your help…I'm killing Vladmir Sorkenvek," Illya said gravely as the eastern edge of the Slavic city rose into view.

Napoleon started to argue, then thought better of it and remained silent. For the time being.

First things first. Stop THRUSH, then…stop Illya.

Russian was one of few languages that Napoleon Solo never mastered, unlike French, Italian, or even German, and reading it was even harder. A fact made all the more obvious when he saw a sign just before the jeep bounding along the rough roadway.

**Города Актау **

"It says 'Aqtau city limits'," Illya deigned to decipher for a questioningly staring Napoleon.

**Морской порт города **

"Seaport City," said Illya by way of continuing to translate.

**Население : 175000 **

"Population: 175,000."

"Yeah, well, I deciphered that last for myself," Napoleon said with a scoff, then pondered the number for a moment. "I thought that was the population for Aqtau a year or so ago."

"Yes," Illya replied, "they haven't gotten around to officially changing it yet."

"Yeah? When will they 'officially' change it?" Napoleon quipped in a last-ditch effort to lighten an otherwise disconsolate mood.

"Probably in a year or so," was Illya's deadpan response as they continued deeper into the Slavic city. "That's Russian bureaucracy for you."

No sooner had the two U.N.C.L.E. agents, dressed in by downgraded clothing and driving an aging ex-Soviet jeep, continued on than they were observed by a Russian sporting a very heavy five o'clock shadow and uni-brow. Someone who promptly lifted a hand to his ear, making certain the Comm device therein properly transmitted and received.

"They are here," he said in guttural Russian, "both of them."

He listened to an unseen someone, while maintaining visual contact with the two aging agents in the jeep. He then nodded curtly and said, still in Russian, "Yes. Understood."

"So where is our safe house here in beautiful downtown Aqtau, Illya?"

"Here we are," said Illya while bringing the old military jeep to a brake-squeaking stop before killing its engine. Then, after slipping the keys into his casual pants pocket, Illya and Napoleon head for the door of an antiquated brownstone. But considerably more rundown than those in New York City.

"Lovely," was Napoleon's sarcastic remark as he followed Illya's lead.

Little did they know that, on the rooftop of the building directly across from the U.N.C.L.E. safe house, a second stubble-faced mystery man was peering at them through the telescopic sight of a Russian KSVK bolt action long sniper rifle, like those used by Russian Special Ops in Checnya in the 1990s.

His black gloved forefinger professionally poised next to its trigger.

With a twisted grin on his rugged features, the man grunted in Russian, "Welcome to Aqtau."

END OF CHAPTER 3


	4. Chapter 4

**THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR**

Chapter 4

"Must be the Russian 'Welcome Wagon'"

POW!

Even as the sound of the sniper rifle reached their ears, two over-the-hill U.N.C.L.E. agents hit the ground and pulled their Walther P38s while the Russian sniper scrambled to his booted feet in order to vacate his rooftop location.

"Did you see?" asked Napoleon Solo, Walther P38 held tightly, as both he and Illya Kuryakin took cover behind their parked ex-Soviet military jeep.

"No. But it had to come from up there. See?" said Illya while gesturing with the muzzle of his pistol toward the gradually defusing gun smoke atop the multistory building across from the U.N.C.L.E. safe house.

"Hm," hummed Napoleon with a quick nod. "Five will get you ten that the sniper's no longer up there."

"Agreed, but he hasn't had time to make it down just yet."

A groan emanating from the vicinity of the safe house doorway caused both to half-turn in that direction. Until that moment, neither knew that someone had been hit by the sniper's bullet.

By the time Illya, as Napoleon covered him from behind the jeep, made his way to the body lying partially inside the doorway, it became clear that, whoever the young man was, his life's blood was now flowing toward the dirty Russian gutter.

Illya knelt next to the profusely bleeding body of an about-to-die young Russian man in his twenties. About the same age Illya Kuryakin had been when first he began his career with U.N.C.L.E.

"Just lie still. I'll get some…," Illya started in Russian, even as the young man breathed his last. "Dead."

After scrambling back to Napoleon, both hurried across the street in order to make their way into the building wherein, somewhere, a Russian sniper was lurking. Their U.N.C.L.E. pistols at the ready, the two out-of-retirement operatives cautiously made their way up the stairs inside a building whose rickety old elevator had been posted, in Russian lettering of course…

**Из службы **

Out of Service…

"Damn. I knew I should've started my exercise program last week," said Napoleon amidst heavy panting as he and Illya moved higher into the rundown structure.

"Unless he jumped, he's got to still be here," said Illya, as he and Napoleon moved past yet another floor's level. "Somewhere."

Just as they had done with the previous three floors, Illya and Napoleon came out onto the fourth in order to search in two different directions along interconnected hallways in for a Russian sniper.

Finally, Napoleon Solo finds him. Sort of.

"Illya. Come in, Illya," said Napoleon into his pen communicator.

"Illya here. Come in, Napoleon," came Illya's hushed voice. "What have you found?"

"I think I may know where our 'friend' is hiding," said Napoleon quietly. "Come on around the end of the hall and we'll tackle him together."

"On my way. Out."

By the time Illya Kuryakin stealthily trotted up to Napoleon Solo's side, the latter gestured with his gun hand toward the bottom of a slightly ajar apartment door and the dirty print of a size 14 boot that remained as mute testimony to the fact that the shooter inside the Kazakhstan tenement.

Using hand signals only, Illya told Napoleon to ease open the door, as their forefingers poised on the triggers of their respective guns. Then…

"Freeze!"

That single word, spoken in both Russian, from Illya, and English, from Napoleon, fell on horrified ears as an elderly couple, lifelong residents of Aqtau, Kazakhstan, sat in frozen fear on a modest, time-worn sofa. A small black-and-white television, a Russian soap opera playing out via tinny speaker, with rabbit-eared antennae forming a lopsided right-angle on top, had once held their aging attention.

It was clear that the reason for the old couple's apprehension had nothing to do with the two armed U.N.C.L.E. agents and everything to do with whoever was hiding in the adjoining bedroom.

As Illya covered Napoleon, the latter swiftly-yet-silently swung around to stand to one side of the closed door. Illya did the same on the other side.

Without saying a word, the two agents used eyes and expressions to signal one another in regards to rushing the bedroom on three…

"Drop it!"

"Hands up!"

The shouted commands, in English and Russian, overlapped one another in a manner that seemed to create an entirely new language.

The two men from U.N.C.L.E., Illya on one knee and Napoleon pressed against the wall, trained ready-to-fire Walther P38s at their rough-looking quarry which, in turn, had the intended effect.

Slowly lifting his arms, the Russian sniper gradually dropped the Russian KSVK so it clattered heavily onto the worn wood floor. After which the surrendering sniper did as Illya, harshly speaking to him in Russian, instructed: he dropped to both knees, while interlocking the fingers of his gloved hands behind his dark-haired head.

For all the sniper knew, he was about to be professionally executed.

"Ask him who he's working for?" Napoleon said as Illya kicked aside the sniper rifle. "Ask him if he's with THRUSH?"

Before Illya could translate the double query, the sniper spoke up in Russian-accented English, "I do not vork for THRUSH. I vasn't trying to assassinate you."

Napoleon and Illya glanced at one another, but never wavered in their combined aim as Illya said, "You could've fooled us. You shot and killed a young man who…"

"Who vas at the safe house to kill more agents of U.N.C.L.E.!" said the kneeling Russian with a snarl. "If I had not shot him, both of you vould now be dead! And the stolen plutonium vould still be at large. Ve could not allow that."

Once again, Napoleon and Illya shot puzzled glances at one another, as the latter said, "What do you think, Napoleon? Should we trust him?"

"Seeing as how you and I have the guns, Illya, I'd say a little trust might actually go a long way," said Napoleon with a half-smile. "All right…on your feet. Slowly."

"And keep your hands behind your head," added Illya, even as the Russian sniper planted one booted foot before his kneeling form, pushed himself upward, until, at last, he stood straight and tall between the two armed men. "Who are you? Talk!"

"My name is Dmitrij Zhamanklov. I vas sent by the Russian PSS to look after you," explained the sniper. "To make certain that your deaths did not become a…how do you say?…'international incident'. Especially since U.N.C.L.E. represents our people as much as those in the Vest."

"Russian PSS?" puzzled Illya with recognition, maintaining his aim on the now-standing Dmitrij, even as Napoleon lowered his weapon while allowing playful sarcasm to dominate face and tone.

"Well, Illya. Must be the Russian 'Welcome Wagon'."

END OF CHAPTER 4


	5. Chapter 5

**THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR**

Chapter 5

"Revenge…is a dish best served fast"

After holstering their Walther P38s and gathering up the Russian sniper rifle, the three exited the post-Soviet apartment amidst apologies, in Russian from Illya, in regards to the intrusion.

Then all three proceeded down the same stairs taken by Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo minutes earlier…

"So," began Illya, "you're an agent with the Russian Presidential Security Service. And why were you sent here with a sniper's rifle again?"

As the three neared the ground floor's door, Dmitrij Zhamanklov said, "I vas sent to make absolutely certain that no more U.N.C.L.E. agents vent 'missing' vhile attempting to do vhat ve could not: get inside THRUSH and recover the veapons-grade plutonium before they use it to make small, but wery powerful, nuclear devices. Vhich they could easily transport and use anyvhere in the vorld. Something vhich those of us serving the Russian President believe vould inevitably be thought to be the vork of Russian dissidents attempting to bring the Vest to its knees. Therefore, inwiting a nuclear response from your country."

"President Vladimir Putin sent you here?" asked Napoleon as the three paused just this side of the door leading from stairwell into ground floor, his lined, yet still handsome, face forming a suspicious scowl.

"Da," said Dmitrij. "Here is my official identification."

Having just pulled a battered wallet from the depths of his warm-but-worn coat's pocket, Napoleon took possession and opened it so that both men from U.N.C.L.E. could see what one would expect an operative of the Russian Federation to carry: A coat of arms that had a blood red background with double-headed, spread-winged eagle clutching a scepter in one talon-clawed foot and a royal globe of sorts in the other, as a central shield bore an all-white man, with short blue cape, riding a large all-white horse while the spear he carried apparently pierced a dragon-like beast trampled beneath the horse's hooves.

"Looks legit," said Napoleon, before handing the wallet back to Dmitrij. "Let's see if we can work together to stop THRUSH."

After cautiously crossing the street to enter the U.N.C.L.E. safe house, carefully sidestepping a drying river of dark red blood while dragging the dead body inside…

"What do ve do now, comrades?"

"First we contact our respective 'Uncles"," said Napoleon with a skewed smile, "Then we break out the vodka and toast to our continued good health."

"Huh?" puzzled Dmitrij Zhamanklov long after the three, and a dead body of a THRUSH-controlled potential assassin, disappeared into said safe house.

"So…they are still alive," said the man sitting in shadow behind an elegant oaken desk. His eerie tone enough to freeze the blood of the reporting operative, in plain-clothes dress rather than the more typical jumpsuit-and-beret togs usually worn by agents of THRUSH. "That is most …unfortunate."

Speaking in a thick Russian accent, this plain-clothes THRUSH operative stammered, "S-sir, if you vould g-give me another chance, I c-can guarantee that both U.N.C.L.E. agents vill be killed…just like the first two. You have the vord of Ivan Pontekomavik, former officer of the KGB and…"

"I don't think you understand, Mr. Pontekomavik. I have much more than your 'word'," said the shadowed man as he slowly stood and walked around to the front of his desk, whereupon the lighting fell upon a face that was heavily scarred, over exactly one-half of the ruined countenance, due to this THRUSH chief narrowly escaping the destruction of their Canadian installation a week or so earlier. "I have your life."

Darien Driscoll, former lieutenant to the resurrected via cybernetics, and now truly dead, Andrew Vulcan, who'd finally risen to stand as a THRUSH commander-in-chief.

Darien's position within the evil organization's hierarchy was such that, combined with the fact the left side of his face was so much melted flesh and his equally ruined left hand was hidden from view in a single shiny black leather glove, it easily sent wave after wave of dread down this Russian THRUSH hoodlum's shivering spine.

The half-faced Darien Driscoll gave a single curt nod to the two jumpsuit-and-beret wearing THRUSH thugs, both toting Heckler-and-Koch XM8 full-auto rifles, who promptly dragged the kicking-and-screaming, in Russian, Ivan Pontekomavik from the somewhat opulent office.

The final slamming of a bulletproof metal door suddenly silencing the man's terrified screams as if someone had simply thrown an "off" switch…

As the devilish nature of the situation wormed its way through the malignant labyrinth that was Darien's mind, one half of his face, the half that was not a melted mass of flesh, forming a depraved grin.

Perhaps it is best that the assassin failed to kill Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo. In truth, I wish to see both die a much slower, more agonizing death. To make up for…this.

Darien reached up to the ruined side of his face with an equally ruined, gloved hand. Thinking better of it, he used the fingertips of his unharmed hand to explore what remained as a reminder of what two over-the-hill U.N.C.L.E. agents had, indeed, done.

Darien sardonically said, "Revenge…is a dish best served fast."

END OF CHAPTER 5


	6. Chapter 6

**THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR**

Chapter 6

"That which does not kill me…will definitely kill you"

Having been given identity-disguising, albeit moth-eaten, clothing, complete with wintry hats to further hide them, Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo were now working with three Russians whom, in decades past, they would've worked against. All of them concerned with stopping THRUSH's destructive use of stolen plutonium.

First, there was Dmitrij Zhamanklov, the Russian PSS sniper who had earlier stopped a potential "hit" on the two older U.N.C.L.E. agents at the safe house; second, there was a Russian-U.N.C.L.E. agent who just happened to be an exotically beautiful twenty-something woman with soft jet-black hair and softer green eyes. Not to mention a shapely body that, as far as the always appreciative womanizer Napoleon was concerned, was quite fetching. Even under so much wintry clothing.

"What did you say your name was again?" asked Napoleon as the four of them lumbered along in the back of a dirty, green KAMAZ 6x6 truck with fixed canvas covering to make traveling incognito that much easier. "And who'd you say was driving this truck?"

Having just ignited the end of a Sobranie Classic cigarette, its acrid smoke causing Napoleon to cough just a little, the lovely Russian's husky, heavily accented voice said, "My name is Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia. The driver is my twin brother, Aleksandr. And ve are the ones saving your American asses. No offense Comrade Kuryakin."

"None taken," said Illya. "As a matter of fact, I am just as proud to be an American as I am of my Russian heritage. And, of course, proud to be an active operative with U.N.C.L.E."

"I'd better report in, Illya," said Napoleon, even as he reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved his pen. Then, with quick fluid motions of his free hand, swiftly transformed it into a pen communicator the likes of which Russian-U.N.C.L.E. Agent Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia had never seen.

"Vhat is that, Comrade Solo?"

"This little thing?" said Napoleon with a furtive smile. "Just a communications device that, when first used by Illya and myself in the 60s and 70s, was considered cutting edge. I suppose its pretty archaic to you newer, younger U.N.C.L.E. agents."

"Vell," shrugged Yelena while fishing out her smallish flip-top cellphone the likes of which one could buy at any mall kiosk in America. "The U.N.C.L.E. headquarters in Moscow has issued these. Unlike publicly purchased cellphones, these are completely secure and make use of special satellite links so that communication can be had even in the frozen vastes of Siberia. But, I must admit, Comrade Solo, your 'pen communicator' is…intriguing."

As a sexually implied look passed between Yelena and Napoleon, he said into the pen communicator, "Open Channel D. Open Channel D."

Suddenly, before such transcontinental satellite contact could be established with the New York U.N.C.L.E. HQ…

BRRRRRROOOOOOMMMMMMM!

…an RPG, fired by a renegade Russian agent working with THRUSH, explosively impacted with the KAMAZ truck, shredding both green cab and lone driver, Aleksandr Kuznetchnia, into unrecognizable chunks of metal mingled with flesh, while also tossing the canvas-covered rear hundreds of feet into the chilled Russian air…

…as four passengers, Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo, Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia, and Dmitrij Zhamanklov, were hurled from within to tumble, bruised, bleeding, and unconscious, a thousand feet away from the partially-destroyed roadway.

Unknown hours later, Napoleon and Illya, both zip-tied securely to two straight-backed metal chairs, having been relieved of their Walther P38s and their pen communicators, slowly regained consciousness to be greeted by the sight of several XM8-armed THRUSH thugs standing guard with single bright-as-the-sun light shining down on them.

"Don't look now, my friend, but I think THRUSH may have the upper hand," said Napoleon via a hushed aside as Illya, who simply nodded.

"Well," Napoleon continued, "at least we don't have to worry about Andrew Vulcan this time. After destroying that laser weapon and their Canadian installation, he's not much more than dog food now."

"Quite amusing, gentlemen," said an oddly familiar, mostly to Napoleon, voice from the dimmer fringes of the singularly-illuminated room. A voice belonging to…

"Darien Driscoll," said Napoleon by way of verbal recognition, even as Illya sighed in tense realization. Then, with a more sarcastic tone, Napoleon added, "You've never looked more handsome, Mr. Driscoll. Does THRUSH have a new plastic surgeon?"

The half-smile, due to the fact only half a face remained, turned into a half-scowl as Darien made delivered a tooth-rattling backhanded blow with his black gloved hand against the side of Napoleon's lined-but-handsome face.

Bringing forth not only a trickle of dark blood, but a sudden grunt from the aging agent.

"That which does not kill me, Mr. Solo, will definitely kill you."

END OF CHAPTER 6


	7. Chapter 7

**THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR**

Chapter 7

"…could you direct me to the nearest haberdasher?"

Darien Driscoll, the new THRUSH chief with the half-scarred face, thanks to Napoleon Solo's and Illya Kuryakin's explosive completion of their first mission affair in decades, had sealed the fate of two over-the-hill U.N.C.L.E. agents.

Or so he believed.

Napoleon thought solemnly, Gotta keep this Andrew Vulcan wannabe busy until Illya and I can figure some way out of this.

"What's the matter, Mr. Solo?" rhetorically asked Darien, half his once handsome face a melted mass of flesh. "No snappy come-backs?"

"Uh," said Napoleon as he worked his secured-by-PlastiCuffs hands behind the straight-backed metal. "Only that the silver-lining in your situation would be that you only have to shave half your face now. Quite a time-saver."

Once again provoked beyond self-control, the black leather gloved hand was, again, firmly planted against Napoleon's still-aching jaw. Once again bringing forth a trickle of blood to mingle with the first.

Though experiencing throbbing pain in the twice-struck half of his face, Napoleon Solo nevertheless maintained his sense of humor by saying, "You know, Mr. Driscoll, Illya's here, too."

"That's okay," said Illya Kuryakin, picking up on Napoleon's attempt to stall for time. "It would appear you and my esteemed colleague have a lot of catching up to do. I'll just sit quietly."

With mocking laughter and half-grin on a half-ruined face, Darien stepped over, while saying, "Now, now, Mr. Kuryakin, I wouldn't want you to feel…left out."

That same black gloved appendage backhanded Illya against his jaw, bringing forth a trickle of blood as well.

"What? No witticism, Mr. Kuryakin?" said Darien with notable sarcasm to both tone and half-expression. "Good. Then allow me to bring in your Russian counterparts."

Already suspecting the identities of said "Russian counterparts", both Illya and Napoleon, especially Napoleon, stopped working their bound hands to gaze at the only door leading in and out of the large, heavily shadowed room.

At first, all they could see, just beyond the illuminated fringes of the straight-down bright lighting, were two heavily shadowed silhouettes.

One a man and the other most definitely a woman.

Oh, no, thought Napoleon Solo while swallowing hard enough for Illya Kuryakin to hear, the blonde-haired agent to briefly glance in his direction. Not again.

Sure enough, as Illya had already deduced and as Napoleon had hoped against, once the two, their own hands secured via PlastiCuffs behind their respective backs, were roughly shoved into the overhead-supplied lighting…

"I'm sure both of you know that this burly Russian man is PSS agent, Dmitrij Zhamanklov," said Darien sadistically and sarcastically as said Presidential Security Service agent was pushed hard by one of the armed-with-XM8 assault THRUSH goons.

It was clear that the combination of RPG-caused injuries along with violent treatment by these beret-wearing THRUSH operatives had not only physically marked Dmitrij, but psychologically as well.

It was also clear that his training and experience as a PSS agent along with years spent in the FSB, had helped him remain steadfast and strong.

"Are you all right, Mr. Zhamanklov?" Illya asked in Russian.

Inclining his battered and bleeding head in a deportment Illya knew to be that of a proud Russian, Dmitrij replied in Russian, "No matter what these insignificant worms do, I shall not 'break', Comrade Kuryakin!"

Napoleon, concerned about the lovely young woman standing next to Dmitrij, softly asked, "Are you all right, Yelena?"

Already knowing that Napoleon Solo did not speak Russian, the sensuous woman from the Moscow-based U.N.C.L.E. headquarters said in heavily-accented English, "I am relatively uninjured, Comrade Solo. Thank you for your concern."

"Well, now," began the half-disfigured Darien Driscoll, while moving to stand on the other side of the bound Russians, "I can only assume, Mr. Solo, that our Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent, Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia, is of special interest to you. Good. She will be the one to suffer the most. While PSS agent Zhamanklov…"

With a curt nod from the half-ravaged THRUSH chieftain, the jumpsuit-and-beret wearing operative directly behind Dmitrij Zhamanklov quickly brought the business end of his XM8 up to rapidly fire a single 5.56 NATO round…

Bam!

…that instantly blew apart Dmitrij's head in the same messy manner a sledgehammer's impact would cause with an overripe watermelon.

Needless to say, blood, bone, and brain matter flew in every direction, easily landing on not only the murderous THRUSH operative with the still-smoking XM8, but Yelena, who half-turned and ducked her face, Illya and, mostly, Napoleon, before the now-headless corpse collapsed with a sickening thud where the now-dead PSS agent had stood.

"Well, Mr. Solo?" said Darien sarcastically. "Any snappy repartee?"

"Just one," said Napoleon as he glanced down at the blood and tissue spatter on his already dressed-down clothing, "could you direct me to the nearest haberdasher? I seem to be in need of a clean set of clothes."

END OF CHAPTER 7


	8. Chapter 8

**THE COUNTDOWN TO ANNIHILATION AFFAIR**

Chapter 8

"…a heavy debt has, at long last, been paid"

By the time Napoleon Solo, jaw aching, mouth bloodied, head fuzzy, regained consciousness, Illya and Yelena were propped against the far wall of what, apparently, was a furniture-free room doubling as a their temporary detention cell.

"Are you all right, Comrade Solo?" asked Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia, agent of the Russian U.N.C.L.E. in Moscow, with more than idle concern in her nebulously bewitching green eyes.

Realizing that he, like them, no longer had his hands secured behind his back, even though the redness caused by the too-tight PlastiCuffs was easily seen and felt as…

"No permanent harm done," Napoleon finally said while rubbing his wrists and wriggling his jaw before glancing down at the drying blood and brain matter still on his casual shirt. "That's obviously more than I can say for Mr. Dmitrij Zhamanklov."

"Yes," Illya Kuryakin said by way of deadpan humor. "I think it is safe to say, Dmitrij lost his head."

Just as both Napoleon and Yelena shot scalding looks at the Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agent, Illya apologetically said, "Sorry. Guess I'm getting a little…antsy."

"Yeah, well," said Napoleon as he got to his feet, "obviously we need to figure out a way to get out of here before Darien Driscoll makes use of that plutonium for their little suitcase Nukes."

"I thought you'd never ask," said a smirking Illya as he, too, stood, with Yelena joining them both a split-second later.

Then, as a perplexed Yelena watched and as Napoleon smiled in a good-thinking-old-friend! fashion, Illya twisted the heel of one supposedly off-the-rack shoes which, in turn, removed its entire sole within which the blonde-haired, blue-eyed agent carried…

"Pentaeruthritol tetranitrate," said Illya as if such perfectly explained the flexible red cord with added putty-like texture inside.

"Primacord Three," groaned Napoleon to the sexy Russian U.N.C.L.E. agent by way of further explanation, then, to Illya, "Why do you always have to complicate things?"

Illya shrugged, then proceeded to attach the sticky side of the red-colored Primacord along the locked side of the featureless, metal door.

Next, reaching down into the sock of his shoeless foot, Illya fished out a thin, curved, Piezo super-compact lighter. Which he promptly ignited so it's jetting blue flame made easy contact with one end of the Primacord Three in order to …

BOOM!

So powerful, as well as precise, was the mini-explosion that it not only obliterated the inner part of the metal door, destroying its locking system, but also thrust open the door with such outward force that it sent the jumpsuit-and-beret wearing THRUSH guard crashing face-first onto the gleaming floor.

Napoleon was quick to rush out ahead of Yelena in a protective fashion, through the thick Primacord smoke, whose acrid smell signaled freedom to the U.N.C.L.E. agents, and, then, relieved the unconscious THRUSH thug of his Heckler-and-Koch XM8 assault rifle.

"Time to go, kiddies," Napoleon said as Illya reassembled his shoe and tugged it back on. "We wouldn't want to disappoint our Uncles."

With that quip left hanging, the three U.N.C.L.E. operatives promptly left in order to find both THRUSH operatives as well as the plutonium and any existing suitcase Nukes.

As well as, Napoleon and Illya silently hoped, locating and killing a certain scarred THRUSH chieftain who'd taken over after Andrew Vulcan's final demise.

"How much longer?" asked a very impatient Darien Driscoll via the intercom of the observation room separated from the in-use plutonium via unbreakable, lead-lined Plexiglas.

The nuclear technicians, all wearing protective suits and hoods, continued to put the finishing touches on several suitcase Nukes which had each been outfitted with enough weapons-grade plutonium to grant them extremely destructive potentials.

The tech in charge, Dr. Vince Cortland, his voice muffled by his protective suit's heavy hood, answered, "Another ten or fifteen minutes, sir, and then we'll have some six cases capable of obliterating six major cities anywhere in the world."

"Let us hope, Dr. Cortland," challenged Darien, "that your estimation is correct. I do not intend to be…disappointed."

From the tone of voice and the expression on the half of Darien's face that was not scarred, Dr. Cortland knew what would happen should he "disappoint" the newest chief of THRUSH, as he stammered, "Y-yes, s-sir."

Unlike most THRUSH personnel, technicians and thugs, who had various twisted motives for doing what they did, Dr. Vince Cortland's reasons were solely for money and lots of it.

How could Dr. Cortland know that, before the second half of his multi-million dollars in blood money could be deposited into Swiss bank accounts, Darien would order a jumpsuit-and-beret goon to execute the head tech with a 5.56 NATO round to the head?

"I think it's time to tend to our 'guests'," Darien said without looking at the XM8-carrying goons standing with him in the protected observation room. Goons who would, still, obediently carry out any order Darien Driscoll issued.

No matter how unclear or indirect.

Darien's half-scarred face grinned deviously as he recalled how he'd gotten such a simplistically larcenous idea from reading, years before, one of the many books penned by Ian Fleming.

"Who says life can't imitate art?" he muttered under his breath as he fantasized how six major cities, such as New York or Washington D.C. or Moscow, could be the unknowing recipients of suitcase Nukes which, with either the touch of a remote satellite-linked detonation device or a built-in timer reaching "zero", would be wiped out by the unleashing of energies rivaling that of six miniature suns.

At that moment, cautiously snaking their way through the interconnecting corridors of yet another subterranean THRUSH headquarters, the XM8-carrying Napoleon Solo led Illya Kuryakin and Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia, both as yet unarmed, in search of the operational heart of this underground installation.

Once found…

"Remember," Napoleon reminded them, "we not only need to take out Darien Driscoll and as many of his THRUSH goons as possible, we also need to secure or destroy any plutonium or finished suitcase Nukes."

"Da," said Yelena's Russian-accented voice, "but it vould be better if Comrade Kuryakin and I also had veapons. No?"

"Yelena has a point, Napoleon," Illya said as Napoleon stopped and turned.

"Okay," he finally heaved, "but let's make it quick. I don't wanna miss the party."

"Don't look now," said Illya warningly, "but 'the party' is about to find us."

Having effectively disabled a THRUSH operative and having extracted information before snapping his neck, the three U.N.C.L.E. agents from opposite sides of the globe made their way into an unguarded room wherein the shoulder-holstered Walther P38s, pen communicators, and add-on packs had been placed.

"All right," said Napoleon softly after he and Illya quickly altered their handguns into carbines, while handing the XM8 to Yelena. "Now let's go find that Andrew Vulcan wannabe…and those suitcase Nukes."

"Let us hope, Comrade Solo, that the guard did not lie to us before…"

"He didn't lie about where to find our weapons and communication devices," cut in Illya. "I think it's likely the rest of what he told us is factual as well."

"Only one way to find out, my Russian friends," said Napoleon with a terse sigh, while leading the way back into the corridor. "Let's go save Democracy."

"Da," said Yelena with a sharp nod. After all, Russia was now in the throes of that self-same form of government. Just not as successfully.

"Make certain the self-destruct explosives have enough lead time to give us ample opportunity to get out of Aqtau with the Nukes," said Darien Driscoll as he led the armed guards away from where THRUSH technicians had nearly completed six suitcase-sized nuclear devices. "That way, we'll not only destroy any evidence of our presence here, but those troublesome U.N.C.L.E. agents will be, literally, dead and buried."

"I wouldn't count on that, Mr. Driscoll," said Illya playfully, as he and Napoleon, armed with fully converted U.N.C.L.E. carbines, along with Yelena, armed with Heckler-and-Koch XM8, took cover within doorways situated along the way.

"Kill them!" shouted Darien even as he dashed away, leaving his armed THRUSH thugs to fend off the escaped U.N.C.L.E. agents.

"Why does that sound so familiar to me?" rhetorically asked Napoleon as all three quickly opened fire before being fired upon. The two U.N.C.L.E. carbines, set to full auto mode, firing like machineguns, while the lovely agent from the Moscow HQ opened up with the XM8.

Before the THRUSH goons could get off even a single shot, the hail of bullets, 9mm Parabellum as well as 5.56 NATO rounds, tore through their jumpsuit covered bodies, in order to send them down to allow their life's blood to coat the formerly gleaming floor.

Meantime, reaching the elevator which would take him into the aboveground multi-purpose building within the Russian city of Aqtau, Kazakhstan…

"There he is!" shouted Yelena as she opened fire.

Illya and Napoleon followed suit but, much to their disappointment, all the bullets merely impacted with the closing bulletproof/bomb-proof elevator door.

"Damn!" said a sorely disappointed Napoleon, while lowering his U.N.C.L.E. carbine's smoking barrel extension.

"He's getting avay!" said Yelena angrily, even as Illya spoke up like the rational U.N.C.L.E. operative he always was.

"We'd best get to the surface as quickly as possible. Even if we do not catch Mr. Driscoll, we'll at least be able to clear the area of innocent citizens before he remotely triggers the explosives in this underground complex."

No sooner had the three U.N.C.L.E. agents cleared said area than…

BRRRRRROOOOOOOOMMMMMM!

"Well," said Napoleon Solo in an attempt to lighten the frustration over not capturing or killing Darien Driscoll, "at least, when they change the city's population total, they won't have to lower it."

Still weary from all that had happened, Illya Kuryakin and Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia could do naught but exchange eye-rolling looks.

Having finished reporting in via their pen communicators, now converted back into their default mode as two ink pens…

"Well, Yelena, can we drop you somewhere before Illya and I head back to the States?" asked Napoleon with a look of romantic promise, after he, Illya, and Yelena reached the parked ex-Soviet military jeep.

With a sexually charged smile, Yelena regrettably replied, "I only vish I could, Comrade Solo, but…I, too, have reported in and have been ordered to remain for retrieval. But, should you come this vay again…"

"I can't think of a better reason to come back," said Napoleon, hazel eyes gleaming and smile widening.

Having already climbed into the jeep and started its old engine, Illya said, "Let's go, Napoleon."

"Well," said Napoleon as he left Yelena with a genteel continental kiss upon the knuckles of one delicate, for a trained U.N.C.L.E. agent, hand, "until we meet again, mon aimé…"

Even as the two older U.N.C.L.E. agents disappeared around the street's corner in the ex-Soviet jeep, Yelena couldn't help but feel a wave of warmth course through her shapely form, as her heart beat just a bit faster and a smile appeared.

Yes, Napoleon…until we meet again.

Then, just as suddenly, the smile disappeared along with the warmth, as Yelena's face took on a decidedly icy look.

"Where are we going, Illya?" asked Napoleon with a scowl as his friend and fellow U.N.C.L.E. agent steered the jeep away from the point of egress from the little Slavic seaport city.

"I told you, Napoleon," said Illya with darkening affectation to match his tense tone, "before I leave, I intend to kill the man responsible for my father's death. Former KGB Fifth Chief Directorate Vladmir Sorkenvek."

"Illya," sighed Napoleon, "I thought we had an understanding. I can't let you go 'rogue', so I took it upon myself to…"

The ex-KGB Fifth Chief Directorate, a very old, very sick man living in what, in America, would've been considered squalor. Wondering why he had not ended his formerly important life long before the indignities of advancing age.

Just then, a light-but-solid knocking caused Vladmir, coughing violently, to shakily get to his feet while shuffling toward his filthy apartment's door, calling in Russian, "Coming…coming…!"

Throwing open the locks with one tremulous liver-spotted old hand, the aged man focused his fading vision just enough to see a lovely young dark-haired lady with green eyes standing in the hallway.

"Vladmir Sorkenvek?" she asked coldly.

"Da?" said Vladmir ignorantly as, so swiftly he didn't even have time to gasp…

Pft!

…the old man, responsible for the deaths of many otherwise innocent Russian men, dropped dead to a worn floor whereupon brain matter and blood had been blown out via a well-placed 9mm bullet from a silencer-fitted Walther P38.

"Thank you for this antiquated weapon and this opportunity, Comrade Solo," Yelena said aloud, in Russian, to no one while feeling a sense of sorrow finally lifted from her narrow shoulders. "I have now executed the man who had not only been responsible, from what you told me, for Comrade Kuryakin's father's death, but the death of my beloved grandfather as well. Otherwise I would not have known where to find the man from whom a heavy debt has, at long last, been paid."

With that, after pocketing the former official handgun of U.N.C.L.E. agents from four decades past in her wintry coat, a self-gratified Yelena Aleksandra Kuznetchnia calmly walked away.

She could only hope that, when Napoleon explained to Illya that he'd told her where to find the man who, ironically, had tragic ties to both Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. agents, the blonde-haired, blue-eyed operative would not resent him for it.

END


End file.
